


Voiceless

by FairyLaughing



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Medieval Medicine, Mute Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-19 01:23:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22502983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairyLaughing/pseuds/FairyLaughing
Summary: Jaskier loses his voice. Geralt is amused and pleased at first, but soon realizes that Jaskier is actually really sick and that it’s a bit serious.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 262





	1. I: Jaskier

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to unload this plot bunny to someone else but it was a tenacious bugger. Enjoy. Rotating perspective between Geralt and Jaskier by chapter. I’ve only seen the Netflix show so sorry if there are mistakes related to the setting.

Jaskier knew he was getting ill. The lethargy, the slight headache, the tingle every time he spoke… oh, yes, it was a cold at the very least, possibly some form of influenza or pneumonia that would no doubt turn deadly within a week. All Jaskier could bring himself to say however was, “Geralt, my throat hurts. We must make tea.”

“When we stop for the midday meal.”

“Sure,” Jaskier nodded. “Tea with lunch. Okay, that should suffice.”

It was not enough. The tea, made with liquorice, marsh mallow, coneflower, chamomile, and peppermint, that is, everything Jaskier could think of that might help, did not actually help a lot. Jaskier wished, aloud, he had some honey to add: “Oh but I would give for a dollop of honey to sweeten my wretched chords… and this bitter brew.”

“Bottoms up, bard.” Geralt tilted the remains of the mug of herbal tincture, the dregs of nasty leafy bits, right into Jaskier’s gullet! Jaskier sputtered, and spewed what he could not swallow, right into the fire they’d been cooking lunch upon.

“Ger-a-halt!” Jaskier broke into a horrible coughing fit as the herbs made their way down. Geralt chuckled, though he cuffed Jaskier on the back heartily as the last bit of tea made its way into his system. That was as close to affection as Jaskier could expect from the Witcher, really.

They packed up the midday meal and continued on.

That afternoon was silent. It was cold enough to see their breath, more than just Roach’s; Geralt and Jaskier’s breaths were also visible, and in fact Roach’s body steamed very slightly against the cold air. The cold cut crisply into their lungs, and Jaskiers affected airways even more. He felt them becoming more congested as the afternoon wore on. He was snivelling into a wet lace handkerchief embroidered with the initials of a long-forgotten noble woman when he noticed an ideal campsite. “Geralt, shall we stop there? Before nightfall at least? It’s becoming very damp.”

Geralt sniffed the air, “It’s going to snow.”

“Well,” Jaskier’s voice cracked. “That’s just wonderful.”

“It’s a decent campsite.” Geralt agreed, dismounting and bringing Roach to an appropriate stopping point where the horse would feel sheltered. He began pulling off saddlebags. Jaskier was frankly too exhausted to participate in setting up camp. Geralt raised an eyebrow, but didn’t bring attention to his companion’s laziness. Soon there was a warm campfire aglow between them, and Geralt and Jaskier were seated on stumps while Roach munched on nearby scrubby grass and the sun crept out of sight. A pot of water was heating over the fire, although there was no fresh meat to prepare, nor jerky and grains for soup taken out yet, and Jaskier wasn’t sure as to the purpose of the water... it was a little early for supper. He looked at Geralt with curious eyes.

“It’s fine, Bard,” said Geralt. “Save your voice and make some tea.”

“Oh,” Jaskier blinked, so unused to kindness from his companion that he was taken aback. “Thank you.” He croaked. Like, actually croaked. His hands flew to his throat, and he blushed a bit as he lowered his chin and began pulling out things to put into a tea. Yet again Jaskier made the herbal brew, a concoction of everything he could think of, and then some, since apparently every herb available was “good for a cold.”

The silence stretched on into eternity, but it was a lovely evening. If it could be this way forever Jaskier would not be opposed. The sun was basically set. Geralt seemed to revel in the silence, an expression of slight happiness on his face. Jaskier blew on his tea as it had finally cooled enough to start drinking.

“Hold on,” said Geralt. He went into Roach’s saddlebags and Jaskier watched as in the fading light of an autumn night the Witcher pulled out a tiny jar of molten gold. He held it out to Jaskier as if it were a precious jewel, the sun’s final rays caught inside of the jar.

“It’s honey.” he said. His eyes glinted, nearly as rich as the contents.

“Honey.” Jaskier whispered, reverently. He opened the jar and dipped in his spoon, adding a generous portion to his mug of hot, wet-herb water. He stirred it and replaced the lid on Geralt’s honey jar, handing it back to him with two hands as if Geralt were an actual bear.

“Thank you.” Jaskier’s voice was nearly gone now from coughing and breathing cold air.

“Of course.” Geralt said, blushing, perhaps, in the firelight.

Jaskier took a sip of the hot tea and felt it go down smoothly. “Oh fuck, Geralt.” He moaned.

The Witcher grinned his strange half-smile at Jaskier, and set about making himself a cup of plain peppermint tea with a scoop of honey. Jaskier had no idea before tonight, but apparently Geralt had a bit of a sweet-tooth himself, and this was his secret cold-night comfort drink. Soon they both crouched near the fire, sipping tea, eating a very basic soup, and then, early, they curled into their sleeping rolls for a chilly night.

There had been talk of a tent, by Jaskier mostly, but Geralt had before always just slept in the open air near a fire (mainly because of monsters), so tonight they were on their own. Jaskier, with the congestion in his nasal passages slinking downwards and the infection in his throat creeping upwards, coughed loudly and his sleep was disrupted. He tried to hide it, so Geralt could sleep, tried to breathe the warm air inside his sleeping roll, or hold his coughs within, but eventually he was too cold and miserable to do anything but cough openly into the night air.

Jaskier blinked as he saw Geralt crouching above him, squinting down in dim firelight and muttering. Geralt added a few more logs to the fire, and Jaskier vaguely felt Geralt touching his forehead, his chest, and muttering some deeply disgruntled, disparaging, remarks about the bard, before he was enveloped in another sleeping roll, and a body, holding him tightly and warming him up.

“Sleep.”


	2. II: Geralt

Geralt usually woke up at the ass crack of dawn and today wasn’t any different. Typically he’d wake Jaskier not long after, but as the bard was sleeping peacefully at last, he had not slept well, so he left him to sleep in while he restarted the fire from embers and prepared some flat bread and sausages on the hot stones, as well as hot water for tea for when Jaskier woke. He fed Roach her breakfast and packed up most of the extra camp gear into his saddlebags, spending some time to stroke the horse and speak quietly to her.

Snow began to fall as he was petting Roach, the flakes resting on the mare’s dark fur. She snorted into her oats bag.

“Jaskier, time to get up.” Geralt crouched next to the bard and shook his shoulder gently. Jaskier was huddled inside the sleeping roll, not much more than his messy brown hair showing. He sniffled and shuffled, turning away from Geralt to hack repeatedly and shiver. He sat up, sleeping roll pooling around his waist; the bard looked terrible, his face pale and eyes sunken. Jaskier started to greet Geralt, trying to say “Good morning,” but his voice eked out a “Go” and then died in a squeak. His hands went to his throat and he tried to speak again, but instead of speaking his voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

A look of realization came across Geralt’s face, along with a ghost of a smile, “You’ve lost your voice?”

Jaskier nodded solemnly.

“Oh…” Geralt chuckled. “This is good.”

Jaskier glared as if to say “not for me it’s not.”

Geralt handed him a piece of flat bread with a couple sausages on top as a peace offering. Jaskier frowned and shook his head, trying to hand it back.

“You’re not hungry?”

Jaskier shrugged and touched his throat murmuring, “Hur’s.”

“Sore throat?”

He nodded.

“Too bad,” Geralt said, pushing it back into Jaskier’s hands, “You need to eat, at least try. I’ll make you some tea.”

Jaskier nibbled the flat bread, wincing as he swallowed, and graciously accepted a mug of honey-sweetened tea from Geralt. The bread, once softened by the tea, went down okay, but he gave the sausages to Geralt again with a shake of his head. The Witcher frowned, but ate them so as not to let it go to waste. He would have to accept that Jaskier had eaten most of the bread, it was something.

The snow was starting to fall thicker. Geralt frowned up at the sky. “If we hit the road right away we can be in a town by nightfall, provided we both ride Roach.”

Jaskier looked at Geralt in surprise.

“Just this once,” he said, and then added. “You ought to look into getting a horse for yourself.”

Jaskier nodded, finishing his tea. He stood, folded up his sleeping roll, and then went to Roach to load it into the saddlebags. He slipped the horse the last few bites of his flatbread and she accepted them, warm velveteen muzzle brushing his cold palm.

“You can borrow my warm cloak.” Geralt said, pulling it from his satchel and draping it over Jaskier’s shoulders.

Jaskier clutched the cloak around himself appreciatively and climbed up behind Geralt in the saddle. “Hold on, we’ll be riding hard all day.”

They barely stopped at midday, just long enough for Roach to get a drink of water and for them to munch some jerky. The snow continued to fall, soaking through even Geralt’s warm cloak over Jaskier’s shoulders and causing him to shiver. Geralt wished he had something warmer to put on the bard, but there wasn’t anything warmer in their bags so they continued along the road. It was quieter than Geralt could ever remember since Jaskier joined him in his travels, save for Jaskier’s rough breathing and intermittent coughing. Although normally he’d be eager to get to the next village for a contract, right now Geralt was eager to get there so they could get inside and warm up. He wasn’t that cold yet, but Jaskier… well, it was the bard’s own fault for insisting on tagging along! Geralt decided Jaskier was an idiot, and should have packed better for the weather, not that he’d said anything earlier about the weather conditions in this region so that Jaskier would know what to purchase or bring. Also Geralt was aware that sickness had more to do with contact with others, but then perhaps Jaskier shouldn’t have been kissing every pretty lady he came across the last time they were in a tavern! The weather also probably didn’t help in the bard’s fighting off of illness...

Jaskier, holding Geralt from behind, suddenly tensed and then flinched against Geralt’s back with a start. Geralt heard a sneeze and felt a warm, wet spray against the back of his neck. He paused and asked, “Did you just?”

The bard just coughed in response and pressed his head against the middle of Geralt’s back, holding on tighter. Idiot, Geralt thought.

Geralt sighed. “You’re feeling warm, you know that?”

A nod against his back.

The heat of Jaskier against Geralt only increased as the day went on and they rode. The snow was falling thickly and they were soaked to the skin by the time they were passing through the gates into town.

“Where’s the best tavern in town?” Geralt demanded of the gateman.

“There’s the Dragon’s Codpiece on mainstreet, they’ve got good ale and stables.”

“Thanks.” Geralt tossed the gateman an oren and continued down the road. “Nearly there bard.”

Jaskier mumbled indistinctly against his back, his grip loosening around Geralt’s waist.

At last they stopped. Geralt helped Jaskier off Roach’s back and he dizzily clutched the Witcher to maintain his balance as they went inside. The heat of the tavern was sweltering and wonderful, Geralt went right to the bar, supporting the bard, and propped Jaskier against it, flagging down the tavern keeper. “I need a room and stable for my mount. She’s right outside.”

“Of course, of course. We’ve got a room available, just one bed though.”

Geralt sighed. “That’s alright. And a bath brought up.”

“Ah, there’s no tub, though you’re welcome to use the public bathing room.”

Geralt’s lip curled upwards.

“Hold on,” a woman’s voice asked. “Are you Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf?” The innkeeper’s wife approached them, a busty middle-aged women with fair hair falling out of a rough bun and a pretty face.

Geralt figured it was better not to deny it. “I am.”

“So this man with you must be Jaskier then? Oh goodness, to have the famous bard right here in my humble tavern!”

Jaskier seemed to realize someone was saying his name and he looked up with glazed, unfocused eyes. 

Geralt blinked in confusion; this woman had heard of Jaskier? “Uh. Yes. It is.”

Jaskier went to say something to the woman, but instead broke into a rough coughing fit. He was trembling like a leaf and his nose streamed.

“Oh!” She frowned and reached across the bar to touch Jaskier’s arm. “Poor dear, you’re ill.” She touched his forehead and tutted, “Burning right up, you are.”

“Hmm... yes. I don’t think he’ll be singing here tonight.” Fortunately, Geralt thought to himself.

“Fredrick,” she said to her husband. “Give them the key to room eight.”

“It’s under reservation.”

“If they aren’t here yet then their reservation is expired.” She huffed to him, and the to Geralt, “That room has two beds, a private bath, and its own fireplace. Jaskier needs it.”

She clapped her hands with authority and Fredrick pulled they key for the room out from under the bar. “Here you are.” He said, “The room’s fifteen a night and…”

“The room is on the house. I’ll have some drink and food sent up, and a bath. The good bard could use a broth I think... I’ll go prepare one. When he’s well again he can make it up by singing for us.”

“But…” Fredrick began to protest.

“He will sing for us,” she repeated. “And we will make our money back with the crowd it draws in.”

Fredrick grumbled, but didn’t say anything else.

Geralt nodded his thanks and helped Jaskier up the stairs. When they got into the room Geralt at last relaxed. He dropped Jaskier on one of the beds and began lighting a fire, laying it out and preparing to cast a fire, but just then a serving girl came in with a sling of firewood and two steaming mugs. “Begging your pardon sirs, I’ve mulled wine for you and tea for him. I can light the fire too, if you wish.”

Normally Geralt preferred privacy over the convenience of servants, but with Jaskier’s condition as it was he decided that time was more important so he nodded his ascent. “Thanks.” The Witcher began to remove the layers of wet clothing from Jaskier, pausing to hang them near the fireplace. Once he had the bard naked he wrapped him in a blanket and rubbed at his body to try to dry it. Jaskier’s skin was clammy and cool over most of his body, except where he burned around his neck, ears, and face. He reeked of sickness. “Hmm.”

“What would you like to eat?” the serving girl asked, drawing away from a fire that was just catching. “We have pheasant and potatoes or beef stew.”

“Stew would be good. With some bread and cheese. And the lady said she was preparing a broth?”

“Indeed. She also said you might want a bath? Shall I bring in hot water and towels?”

“Yes please, but not too hot. I don’t want his fever to spike.”

“Very good sir.” The serving girl curtsied and left the room.

“Oh little bard,” Geralt stroked Jaskier’s cheek and sighed. “The troubles you get yourself into.”


	3. III: Jaskier

He was freezing! Jaskier shivered in the air of the room, and continued to shiver as he was assisted out of his clothing by Geralt. He wanted to make a crack about the Witcher undressing him, but he couldn’t speak so instead he gave Geralt a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I know what you’re thinking, but we’ve both seen each other naked before. I’m only helping you undress because you’ll fall on your ass if I let you do it by yourself.”

Jaskier’s mouth formed a small “o”.

“Get in the damned tub before I throw you in.”

Jaskier gripped the edges, trembling heavily, and Geralt again helped hold him steady while he lowered himself in. He frowned as soon as he entered the water, shivering and glaring... the water was frigid!

“C’ld,” he croaked out.

Geralt dipped his hand in, “It’s plenty fucking warm enough.”

Jaskier shook his head and pointed to the kettle over the fire demandingly.

“Fine, but just a little.” Geralt sighed and fetched the kettle, pouring the hot water into the tub. Jaskier swirled it about, warming the bath by a degree or two. He leaned into the water. His muscles ached and he had hoped that a hot bath would help, but it was doing very little. The way he held his body, curled into itself, spoke of pain and discomfort.

Geralt went to his bag and began to riffle about, eventually coming up with two small, dark vials. He poured a couple drops of one into the water and immediately menthol filled the air, a couple drops of the other and the smell of lavender rose up. Jaskier, finding that the warm (he wouldn’t call it hot) water was already clearing his sinuses, discovered he could smell again, at least these powerful scents, and they were helping, although now his nose was running furiously. He sniffled, nose dripping into the water.

Geralt, after he put away the vials, returned with a small rag which he handed to Jaskier. “Sorry it’s not silk,” he said, with only a touch of sarcasm.

Jaskier shrugged and blew his nose, although the more that came out the more there seemed to be left. He frowned at the bit of blackish blood mixed in with the snot.

“Sorry I’m gross.” Jaskier whispered, his voice inaudible to all but a Witcher.

“Sorry you’re… gross? I’m covered in monster guts a lot of the time... you’re just human.”

Thoughts raced around Jaskier’s head but he found he was having a hard time capturing them. It was like he was standing in a moving stream and his thoughts were wily silver fish, but he only had his hands to fish with, having neither net, nor line and hook. The fish kept swimming around his feet, or perhaps they were frogs? Or otters?

He gazed into the bathwater for an undetermined amount of time, coughing every once in awhile, before a knock at the door summoned Geralt. He stood, the front of his shirt wet from kneeling next to the tub, and went to the door of their room. He returned with a tray which he set on the small table in the room.

“Think you’re done?”

Jaskier found himself a bit warmer than he was before, or at least cleaner, though his mind was still fuzzy. He nodded and went to stand, holding the edges of the tub against the inevitable dizzy spell that followed.

Geralt was at his side in a second, stopping him from dashing his head on the tub, “Fool, ask me next time you decide to stand up.”

Jaskier glared and gestured at his pained throat and non-functional voice.

“Right. At least go slower.” Geralt towelled him off in a gesture that was more intimate than any he could remember them sharing before, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel awkward due to being about as steady on his legs as a newborn colt, nor could he exactly parse the implications with his silver-fish thoughts.

Jaskier was put into one of his nightshirts and wrapped in a blanket before being deposited on a chair and given a spoon. Geralt put a bowl of fragrant brothy soup and a mug of tea in front of him. He stared at it blankly while Geralt sat beside him, pulling his own bowl towards himself and starting to tear bits of bread into his stew.

“Is there something wrong with it?” Geralt asked. “Or do I have to feed you too?”

Jaskier shook himself out of his reverie and reached out his spoon, hand trembling. There were occasional small pieces of boiled vegetables and egg noodles in the broth, but they were soft and went down easily. He ate extremely slowly. In the time it took Jaskier to eat half the bowl Geralt had finished a hearty portion of stew mopped up with bread and all the cheese and meat that had been brought. Jaskier set down his spoon and took a small sip of tea. He pushed the bowl away from himself to signal that he was finished.

“That’s all? Geralt frowned.

Jaskier nodded, touched his stomach, and then made a so-so gesture with his hand.

“Unsettled stomach?”

Jaskier nodded.

“Hmm. I will be sure to place a chamber pot near the bed in case you are sick.”

Jaskier glared good-naturedly, but was appreciative. He remembered not to stand up on his own and instead pointed to the bed and then held out an arm to Geralt. Geralt stood up and instead of giving Jaskier a hand simply lifted him up, bridal-style, blanket and all, and brought him across the room to one of the beds where he tucked him in beneath two layers of blankets.

Jaskier shivered and huddled the blankets closer around him.

“C’ld,” he whispered.

Geralt rolled his eyes, but fetched a blanket off his own bed to throw on top.

“Sleep now bard.”

His body was ablaze. Jaskier kicked off the blankets, only to have them brought up to his chin again. He struggled against them, but found them held in place. He opened his eyes to see who was swaddling him against his will, only to see Geralt in the dim light of a candle, tucking the sheets in around his body. He whined and tried to squirm out.

“S’hot,” he croaked.

“You were cold not long ago.” Geralt said, pulling off the top layers, but leaving one blanket wrapped around Jaskier.

Jaskier kicked that last blanket down around his feet.

Geralt frowned and pressed his hand, and then wrist, against Jaskier’s forehead. “Fuck,” he muttered, and then stood up. Moments later Jaskier felt a cold wet cloth against his eyes and forehead and he sighed in relief.

“Your fever is high, if it keeps up like this I’ll find a healer tomorrow.”

Jaskier groaned.

What if this sickness damaged his voice permanently? What if he could never sing again? He felt small, weak, and afraid. At least he had Geralt looking over him. The Witcher would beat up sickness for him, not that he could, but it was a funny image in his mind. His Witcher was taking care of him... _his_ Witcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caught up to where I've written now so updates won't be all at once for the next few, but they should be fairly regular since these chapters aren't super long.


	4. IV: Geralt

“What do you mean you don’t do house calls?”

“My patients come to me,” the old man shrugged, going back to measuring out powders. “I can’t leave the shop unattended.”

Geralt huffed. “I can pay.”

“Well then…” the man said, “Let me go grab my blood-letting kit.”

“Blood-letting?”

“Yes lad, of course. How else am I supposed to heal your friend?”

“You know what, never-fucking-mind.” Geralt stormed out of the apothecary shop. He tried to recall the location of the other healer that had been recommended by the innkeeper… three blocks down on Chattle Street, a midwife usually.

Geralt frowned at the small green door and looked up at the sign of a stork with a baby bundle in its beak hung above it. He knocked and was met with silence. He tried again, and then heard “Coming, coming, hold your horses.”

“Yes?” A woman, perhaps thirty-five, with a stained apron and a baby on her hip answered the door. She took in Geralt’s disheveled appearance with a frown. “Come inside.”

Geralt did so, shuffling his feet uncomfortably in the room where four other children and a man looked at him questioningly.

“I’m assuming it isn’t your baby, Witcher, but I can get my things and be right out.”

“It’s not a baby… it’s my bard. My friend, a bard, he’s sick.”

“And you didn’t go to the doctor?”

“The doctor wanted to let blood.”

“Yes,” she barked out a laugh. “That man’s a quack. You did right to come to me. Give me a moment and I will fetch my things and we can be off. What are his symptoms?”

“High fever, cough… he’s lost his voice.”

“Mhmm.” The midwife nodded. She passed the baby to her eldest child and went about putting various bottles and packages of herbs and powders into a bag.

“Where abouts are you staying?”   
  
“The Dragon’s Codpiece.”

“Hear that?” She turned to the children, hefting the bag on her shoulder, “If anyone goes into labour you know where to find me. Come right away.”

“Of course mum,” said a boy.

Along the walk the midwife spoke to Geralt, although most of it was business-like. He found out her name was Leylace and she’d always had a way with healing, her father had suspected elvish blood. She’d started serving as a midwife’s apprentice when she was a girl, and later on assumed the practice when her mistress had retired. It was good work, although often she ended up doing more healing than midwifery, given the size of the village; she was generally the one called out to tend to children and those who couldn’t afford (or don’t trust) the doctor.

“I assume you and the bard are travelling?”

“Yes.”

“Where have you just come from?”

Geralt tried to remember the name of the last village, floundering to recall the name.

“It wouldn’t happen to be Mulbrydale would it?”

Geralt frowned, “Yes, I think that was it.”

“I heard a rumour about a contagion in Mulbrydale is all. If it is the illness I suspect then your friend is in for a bad time, but I’ll have to examine him first.”

“He will be alright though?”

“I must examine him first. Is he otherwise healthy?”

“I… I think so. There was an incident with a Djinn awhile ago, but he fully recovered.”

“Good.” Leylace hardly looked up at the mention of a Djinn, clearly having seen similar oddities in her line of work. Geralt was somewhat impressed.

When Leylace got to the door to the room she immediately wrapped a kerchief over her mouth and nose. “To prevent contagion. I have little ones at home, and other patients, to think of.”

Geralt nodded and opened the door. When he had left he had stoked the fire up high and the room was pleasantly warm, but Jaskier was still shivering on the bed beneath several layers of blankets. Geralt sighed and began to pull them off, “You have too many Jaskier, you’ll overheat.”

Jaskier grumbled and tried to hang onto as many as he could.

“This is Leylace, she’s a healer. Behave.”

Leylace smiled and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the covers aside so she could examine Jaskier in more detail. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, measured his pulse at his wrist, and pressed her fingers to the glands at his neck. He flinched as she did so. “Sorry hun, your neck must be tender.”

Jaskier nodded sadly.

“When did symptoms start?”   
  
“He complained of a sore throat the day before yesterday, in the morning.”

She nodded, “I’d like to look inside his throat, if possible. Do you have a lantern or candle?”

Geralt lit the candle at the side of the bed while Leylace gently coaxed Jaskier’s mouth open and shone the light inside, best as she could. “Oh. Oh my, that’s… not good. Take a look here Witcher. You see this gray membrane?”

“Mhmm.”

“It’s the disease, it might make it hard for him to breathe, and there can be other complications, with the heart particularly. I’d like you to monitor his pulse. Do you know how?”

Geralt nodded.

Leylace sat back, setting the candle down. “I will be perfectly honest with you both, not everyone with this sickness survives. It’s called throat distemper, or the child-strangler in some parts,” she explained. Jaskier’s eyes shone with fever and fear. “One in ten don’t make it, a number which is higher in children as their throats are smaller. You appear to be a young, healthy man though, given that you’re a bard you probably have strong lungs, so I expect you to recover just fine. It may take a couple of weeks though.”

“Weeks!?” Jaskier attempted to say, but the sound caught in his throat and had him coughing.

“Easy hun, easy,” Leylace said, rubbing circles onto his back.

“Will I-” Jaskier tried to speak. Geralt gave him a mug of water and he took a couple sips to clear his throat. “Will I be able to sing again?”

“Probably, the disease rarely has lasting complications like that, it’s not unheard of, but unlikely. Also, I’ll be giving you medicine. It won’t be a cure, but it will ease your symptoms. I’d like you to also get a box of salt and do a rinse with warm salt water three times a day to break down the membrane.”

She stood up and went to her bag where she began to remove various bottles and jars and mix herbs into a mortar. “Witcher, I want you to tell the inkeep that no one is to come into this room while he’s sick. When you leave they should wash it well with soap and hot water. The wood should be doused in vinegar. Any dishes and bedding he uses must also be washed immediately, and staff who have been in contact already can do a salt rinse to help prevent the disease from taking. If they start to show symptoms they must self-quarantine, and have them send for me right away.”

Geralt nodded, “What of the medicine?”

“I’m making up a fever reducer, to be given every four hours, or as needed... it’ll help with the pain as well.” She began to pound the herbs with the pestle, pausing only to add more from one jar or another. “Also, a general decoction to strengthen his body. That should be administered twice a day for at least two weeks, even if he starts to feel better. Both are mainly dried herbs, a bit of oil but, still they are best activated with hot water, so he can take them as a tisane. Honey should be added to both once they have cooled slightly.”

“Honey?”

Leylace nodded, “Honey has medicinal properties, as well as a soothing effect, but too hot of water will null the effect. It’ll also make it taste a bit better... I’ll be perfectly honest, the fever reducer is extremely bitter. How is his appetite?”

“Low.” Geralt said, “He said he has some nausea too.”

“That’s not unexpected. I’ll add something for nausea as well, but he must eat. See if you can coax in foods that are soft, such as applesauce and oatmeal. Oh, and  _ no _ ale, or wine, or anything alcoholic.”

Jaskier scowled.

Leylace put the herbs into two paper bags and set them on the table. “This one, with the powder, is for the fever. It’s mainly powdered willowbark. Administer a spoonful in hot water every four hours as long as it persists. The other is two spoonfuls twice a day. Can you repeat that?”

“Fever reducer, one spoonful in hot water, every four hours until it breaks, the other one is two spoonfuls twice a day.”

“Yes, for two weeks.”

“Two weeks.” Geralt nodded.

  
  
“Even if he feels better. And what are you putting in the tisanes?”

“Honey, once they’ve slightly cooled.”   
  
“Very good. You are in for a rough bit of time, bard.” She patted Jaskier’s shoulder. “Good thing you’ve got a good nursemaid.”

Jaskier giggled deliriously.

“What’s so funny?” Geralt asked with a growl.

Jaskier shook his head and shrugged.

“I will be back to check on him in a couple of days. Monitor his pulse and if it begins to feel uneven or thready send for me. If you need anything, or if he gets worse, you know where to find me.”

“Thank you,” Geralt nodded.

“Oh, as for payment... with the herbs, and my fee… 27 crowns should do.”

Geralt handed her three coins worth 10 each. “Keep the change.”

“Much obliged.” Leylace smiled with her eyes and pocketed the money. “I will send up the innkeeper with hot water for his first doses, and explain the situation for you, I know Fredrick and Moira well.”

“You owe me,” Geralt said with a frown, once the midwife had left. Jaskier could only shrug and huddle into his blankets, pulling up the ones from the foot of the bed up to cover himself further.

“Bard,” Geralt was frustrated as he pulled the blankets back down, “You’re too hot as is. Stop that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit light on the geraskier, sorry. 50 points to your Hogwarts house if you can guess the disease Jaskier is afflicted with!


End file.
